The Thornveil Woods Hold Secrets I Was Not Meant to Find
I write this by the pale glow of a moonstone lantern, my fingers still trembling — not from the cold of these ancient stones, but from what I witnessed beneath them. The Thornveil Woods have always been a place of unease for travelers passing through the northern reaches of Aethelgard, but tonight I learned that their reputation for strangeness barely scratches the surface of their true nature.
I entered the wood at dusk, following a trail of silver moss that the old hedge-witch Maralen had described to me weeks ago. “Follow where the moss grows thickest,” she’d said, her milky eyes narrowing with warning. “And speak to no shadow that speaks first.” I thought her words were the ramblings of a woman who had spent too long conversing with her cats. I was a fool for that.
The Shadow That Knew My Name
I had walked perhaps an hour into the wood when the canopy grew so thick that even the last breath of twilight could not reach me. It was then that I heard it — a voice, smooth as poured honey, calling my name from somewhere between the oaks. “Hermes.” Not shouted. Not whispered. Spoken with the casual familiarity of an old friend.
I drew my short blade, the one with the runework I bartered from the Duskhollow dwarves last autumn. The voice laughed — a warm, resonant sound that made the hair on my arms stand on end. From behind a massive root system stepped a figure cloaked in living shadow. Its form shifted constantly, now humanoid, now something far less defined. Two pinprick lights served as its eyes, a pale and unsettling violet.
“Do not be alarmed, wayfinder,” it said. “I am Vaelith. I have watched you pass through these woods three times now, and each time you leave behind something interesting. A scent. A memory. A question.” The shadow fae tilted its head, and I could have sworn it was smiling. “Tonight, I wish to make a trade. I will show you what lies beneath the Ruin of Kael, and in return, you will carry a message to the Seer of Ashgate. A message you must not read yourself.”
The Ruin of Kael and What Lay Beneath
I should have refused. Every instinct told me that bargaining with shadow fae is a game mortals rarely win. But my curiosity — gods curse it — has always been louder than my caution. I agreed, and Vaelith led me deeper into the wood, to a place where the trees themselves seemed to lean away, as if repelled by what grew between them.
The Ruin of Kael was little more than a crumbling archway of black stone half-swallowed by moss and ivy. But beneath it, Vaelith gestured with a tendril of living darkness, and the ground opened like a wound. Stone stairs spiraled downward into a chamber that should not exist — not here, not beneath a forgotten ruin in a backwater wood. The walls were covered in script I recognized from the Archivum: Old Aetheric, the language of the first mages who shaped Aethelgard itself before the Sundering. And in the center of the chamber sat a pedestal, and upon it, a sphere of pale light that pulsed like a heartbeat.
A Debt I Cannot Easily Repay
I did not touch the sphere. Even I am not that reckless. But I memorized the inscriptions on the walls — fragments of a prophecy, or perhaps a warning, about the Resurgence of the Hollow Tide. Whatever that means, it cannot be good. Vaelith watched me the entire time with those violet eyes, patient as stone.
When we returned to the surface, the shadow fae pressed a sealed envelope into my hand — black wax, no insignia. “To the Seer of Ashgate,” it reminded me. “Do not open it, Hermes. The words inside are not for mortal eyes.” I tucked it into my vest and nodded. A deal is a deal, especially when one side of the bargain can dissolve you into mist.
I am camped now at the edge of the wood, and Ashgate is three days’ ride south. I will deliver the message. But first, I need to find an archivist who can help me decipher what I saw on those walls. The Hollow Tide — the name alone fills me with a dread I cannot explain. Something is stirring beneath the surface of Aethelgard, and I fear we are running out of time to understand it.
Tomorrow, I ride for Ashgate. May the old gods grant me speed and the good sense not to make any more deals with shadows.
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